


unknotted strings

by PlaguedQuillfeathers (PlagueBirbizzle)



Series: in the aether [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Contemplation of Suicide, Deity Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Deity Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enderman Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Fate & Destiny, Gen, Hallucinations, Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Memory Related, Ranboo Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, no beta we die like wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlagueBirbizzle/pseuds/PlaguedQuillfeathers
Summary: "Whatever it is, he hopes the survivors cherish the memories where things were happy.He hopes, in their remembrance, they honor him, someday."❤A young god struggles with purpose, staring down options he never thought he would follow.
Relationships: Eret & Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: in the aether [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103426
Kudos: 62





	unknotted strings

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! This turned out heavier than I originally planned, so please be aware of the tags!  
> Once again, all referenced characters will be discussed in the end notes. I'm only tagging characters that appear in the proper story ^^  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also, someone said I should put my socials in, so you can find me at @redwxngs on twitter or @plaguedquillfeathers on tumblr!

_He does not know why he lurks among a graveyard void of bodies, especially when the silence seems to suffocate him._

_Paying his respects, for one, feels hollow in his chest. A gaping hole, waiting to be filled._

L’Manberg is nothing more than a scatter of stone and burning dream, despite the endless attempts that pass to quench the everflame in her wounds. It’s odd to see the earth weep so openly, leaking lava through cracks previously hidden by the underground.

It smells like death.

In the crevices, he often spots the creatures of the dark peering up at him, mouths drawn back in an angry sneer when they realize his gifts -- his obvious unshackling from the need to be nocturnal. Now, however, those sneers seem to hold more than envy; they hold anger, vibrating openly. 

Even they have lost a home, really, foundations non-existent and forever open to the unforgiving sun. 

_What loss do the bystanders suffer in this endless conflict? What do they lose if they do not die? Hope? Freedom? Power? How much more will they lose in others’ pursuits for power?_

He wonders what else they’ve lost below, even if he should have no reason to care for those the gods deem as fodder. He is a god, after all -- plucked out from the masses to maintain the many facets of the aether. Those creatures were to be nothing but the sources of magical ingredients, twitching under the blade of a budding alchemist, jaws unhinged in a scream as their life-force is dug out of them.

That could have been him, but it wasn’t.

_Unfortunate bystanders, or necessary casualties?_

The pearl deep within his chest rattles with fear. 

_Both? Neither?_

Whatever it is, he hopes the survivors cherish the memories where things were happy. 

He hopes, in their remembrance, they honor him, someday.

_Maybe._

The thought stings. 

The ledge looms before him.

“Hello, L’Manberg.”

This is not the first time he’s walked this path, for he pauses his stride once the edge of a large crater draws near, watching as the rocks under his shoes leap into the gaping abyss. From his height, he does not need to leer over the edge in order to watch the rocks tumble, but he does it anyway, tail raising high in the air for balance. 

His balance needs work, especially when he teeters slightly, but his lack of it stems from an odd posture-- an acquired habit by necessity. 

He’s always had a need to look small.

Or so he recalls. 

For the god of memory, Memory himself needs a little help sometimes.

Currently, however, he needs a lot of it. 

“You’ve seen better days, huh.”

As the rocks tumble, their destination is set on a deep pool of water below, with the larger ones making a satisfied plop as they breach the surface. He cannot see them sink from such a distance, but he knows the pool is deep enough.

_It’s always been deep enough._

  
His skin crawls at the thought.

“We’ve both seen better days, to be honest. I’m glad that I can remember them.”

The young god remembers those tidbits of happiness, at least -- it’s almost like a single title in a mental library of locked books. He can open the oldest ones just fine, spines frayed and pages fading, but the shiny, new shelves are rarely unlocked to him these days, leaving spots in his mental inventory. For all the history in the aether, he is doomed to forget the recent points until a certain time has passed-- doomed to have them rest in the corner of his vision, at the tip of his tongue. When he reaches, it retracts; when he retracts, it reaches.

Remembrance, to him, is unnecessarily earned.

Remembrance, to the others, seems to poison budding roots with resentment.

“I hope they remember you.”

When the god turns to the side, the world seems to flicker before him, rubble rebuilding and smoke retreating until laughter fills the air once more. L’Manberg, in all her glory, feels as tangible as the ground below, with the ghosts of its former inhabitants floating steadily within it. 

Instinctively, he reaches out as if they will rise to meet him, but his clawed hand retreats just as quickly, curling into a fist at his chest. “I hope they remember you at your purest.”

It’s foolish to live in fantasies -- even in reality.

Once, he’d been so ready to fall into the nation’s open arms -- to accept the community she had fostered. Back then, he had been on such a clean slate. _Naive. Oh so naive._

He almost wishes he could pretend he still is.

So ready to make a difference. So poised to fail.

He wishes that he’d been more careful.

“Rest easy...You’ve earned it.”

The memory starts to fade as quickly as it arrived, and as the smoke starts to block its farewells, hiding love and lost and hope and -- aether above -- everything in and around it, he despises his incapabilities.

He fears his malleability. 

He fears the future, as deep and dark as the pool below.

**_That water looks so welcoming._ **

He fears himself.

Ranboo flinches, intrusive thoughts bubbling to the surface. 

**_Choose people, we’d said._ **

**_Choose us all, you’d done._ **

**_We’d done it! You have done so much!_ ** **_  
_ ** ****

He shivers, hands gripping tightly to his hair as the world shifts once more, this time with blood in the air and wails on the horizon. Pain -- concentrated -- leaks steadily through his mind.

**_And for what? Ashes?_ **

L’Manberg’s fading memory corrupts before him, wood and brick oozing into a single structure adorned in flame and flesh alike. A false idol, a buried fear in the hearts of many.

It screams.

He feels hot, soul on fire, but he does not move away.

**_Look at what you’ve done._ ** **_  
_ ** **_Look at what we’ve done!_ **

He does not _want_ to move away.  
The thought scares him. 

**_Don’t you see? It was never meant to be! It was never meant to be!_ **

“You’re wrong...We can fix this.” He tries to reason with the voices rising from the airs, all anger and fear in various forms, but they do not listen, still tied to the minds of their sources. “We can start anew. Start something better.”

The screams linger.

**_But not with you._ **

The thoughts multiply.

**_You’re not needed._ **

  
They haunt the god who only wishes to help, but remains oh so lost. 

He’s so tired of being lost.  
  


**_You’ve never been needed._ **

To move away was to move forward.

To move forward was to--

**_Jump._ **

**_Jump._ **

**_Jump!_ **

“No, we shouldn’t be here. We...We shouldn’t--” The utter comes out without any form of warning, voice cracking with fear, but as quick as that fear mounts, he is quick to snap back at himself. “But we are. _We are! This is what is right!_ ”

**_You’ve done nothing to help us, Ranboo. Nothing!_ **

“ _It can’t be helped! L’Manberg is dead! Gone!”_

The pool has gone still once more, even though the wind is surely howling in his ears, a violent memory only he can hear. 

He’s so tired of being the only one who listens -- the only one who remembers.

**_Thanks to you._ **

The gods are doomed never to listen.

It hurts.

“It’s not my fault...It’s not. Please--” 

_They’re never going to learn, are they?_

**_Nobody would miss you. Your choices make you missable. Unneeded._ **

“What’d I do...I chose people. I swear I chose people.”

**_You chose everything, and got nothing._ **

**_You chose wrong._ **

He talks.

Nobody listens.

He berates. He betrays.

Nobody listens.

He pleads. He _begs._

He shifts.

Nobody listens.

**_Jump...Jump!_ **

He snaps.

_Nobody--_

_“Ranboo!”_ A voice along the horizon calls, barely piercing his panic, but it is enough. _Aether above, is it enough._

_No!_

Something tugs -- violent -- and Ranboo feels himself move, a guttural cry on his lips, before the world goes black.

There are ripples in the water below.

  
\--♥--

He wakes to a night sky and the sounds of endermen around him, lidless eyes soon adjusting the dark and mouth opening to taste the air.

Smoke: there are torches surrounding him.

He’s not dead. 

The ledge is nowhere in sight.

Disorientated, Ranboo tries to stand, only for a vicious wave of nausea to wash over him. It takes a second longer for him to slump, a moan on his lips. “Where…”

“You teleported across the crater.” 

_He’s not alone._

The voice from before is far clearer this time around, with no source required due to the sheer familiarity of it on his ears. Ranboo, however, refuses to assume that the voice is who he thinks it is just yet, so he turns to face them. 

Fate, sitting cross-legged on the floor, pokes at a small bonfire before them. 

They are dressed as expected, crimson cape spread out across the grass, but their crown rests upon the floor beside them, seemingly unneeded for the time being. The latter is an odd sight to Ranboo, given his own attachment to the crown upon his head, but he accepts it nonetheless.

Shaded eyes stare back at him, a weapon that remained just out of sight; it's a dangerous game to see what is held behind the dark shield.

“Eret?” It is in these moments where Ranboo wishes he could blink like the others, for the slow close of membranes along his eyes feels less dramatic, inaccurately showing his disbelief. “How did you...What are you--”

_How much did you see?_

“--Doing here? I could ask the same thing...It’s not the safest to be in L’Manberg anymore.” The deity beats him to the punch, tone nothing but welcoming, but before Ranboo can shift into anything defensive, an eyebrow raises above their sunglasses, “Even gods can get hurt.”

Ranboo stares back, but doesn’t reply.

The reply doesn’t need to be said. It’s an obvious sort, even for Fate themselves: 

_Gods are already hurt._

_Gods are still going to get hurt, in fact._

Despite the barrier between their gazes, the hybrid ducks his head once the eye-contact gets too much, chittering softly as he checks himself over. His suit, fortunately, is intact after such a frantic shift through space itself, only sporting a tear along his right sleeve. By the look of it, he may have gotten cut along the journey to the campsite.

The fabric is sticky, indicating a potion of some sort; it must have been a deep cut. 

He’s always found it odd that gods bleed.

The silence lets him think about it further.

He thinks about a lot of things, in fact.

"What were you doing there?"

Eret, gaze equally averted, clears their throat. “I...Erm, I’ve been around here for a while. I’ve seen you there -- at the ledge -- so many times.”

The words send a shiver through the memory god; he barely knows how many times he’s visited himself.

If those visits caught the inevitable eyes of Fate, then Ranboo doesn’t need to look over to know what’s coming. He did not need to, right?  
  


_And yet--_ “You called out to me. You saved me...You knew.”

Eret doesn’t answer immediately, but the silence is enough.

The silence feels like a massive weight, bending the hybrid even further into himself. Perhaps, with enough pressure, he could fold into a singular point and disappear.

Perhaps he can truly disappear this time. Perhaps.

_No. Never again._

“I didn’t save you. You untied a knot before I spoke.”

_Never again -- What?_

A knot.

The word obviously confuses the young god, causing a soft warble to bubble from him, but Eret doesn’t seem to take offense. For all their interactions, the gods tended to keep their dealings to themselves -- _how they function, how they perceive_ \-- so some seemed more mysterious than others. To the youngest of gods, there was a lot to sift through by default.

Given what they have collectively witnessed, the mysteries were bound to be endless, even for them.

They didn’t mind it one bit.

“You’ve heard of the term ‘string of fate’, yeah?” The poking stick is thrown into the bonfire, sending embers into the night. The deity watches them rise. “How it starts in a big ball and trails towards something, right?”

“I...I’ve heard of it.” Ranboo shifts his sitting position, motions wary, but ears pricked. He’s intrigued, like most of the younger gods, which is a great contrast from the fraying edges Eret saw on that ledge, desperately trying to stitch himself back together.

It’s a miracle, truly. Few untie their strings these days.

In a better world, however, it would not have happened in the first place.

They do, however, relate greatly to the odd seating; the joys of long limbs never cease to present amusing angles. It almost makes them wonder how endermen sit, but the visual image alone makes them hold back a chuckle.

Now is not the time.

“You see, the string analogy is helpful. It’s simple, so I use it.” Smiling, Eret starts to move a hand with a flourish, tone gently sinking into the night. From their fingertips, a red light seeps, painting lines across the air. “However, it has its flaws…”

Strings, a lot of them, take off into the distance, woven so tightly together that it becomes a sea of red. Pulsing and shifting, Ranboo almost believes that he can hear his own heartbeat within it.

He’d be right if he ever voiced it.

The young god whistles low. “That’s a lot of string.”

“I know, right?” The reply, paired with a grin, is so casual that Ranboo bursts out laughing. Eret, triumphant, takes some time to laugh too. “And with a lot of string, things get entangled.” The apparition dissipates as quickly as it came, leaving Eret to shake out his hand with a sigh. “Everyone is given an indefinite amount of string -- you can do as you please with it, really -- but when everyone’s strings decide to knot over one spot...That’s me.”

“That’s...Fate?”

  
“Yup. I'm the knots in Time's fabric. Ask Karl.” Eyes turn back to the bonfire, “I guess you can see why I took Fundy under my wing, huh? We deal in similar fabric.”

_The Crossroads god?_ Sure, Ranboo had heard of the mess surrounding the vulpine, but as he picks it apart, it makes a lot of sense that Eret would be interested.

However, confusion still clouds his mind, steadily locking away thoughts he scrambles to hold onto. 

“So why am I still alive?” There it was: _the question_ . Once it leaves him, it almost feels freeing, even if his hands are shaking, mind darting about as he comes to terms with it. “I wanted to _die_ , Eret. I wanted to--”

  
  
His voice cracks, a full shiver running up his spine, but he notes a palm on his back.

He leans into it, shivering. 

The whisper is barely audible, but it is enough. “--I could have died.”

The silence, this time, feels lighter.

“And I’m glad you didn’t. I’m so happy that you’re still here.” 

“Really?”

This time, there's someone there to carry the load with him.

  
  
“Really...I promise.”

For the first time in a long time, Ranboo feels the words cement themselves.

He hopes he doesn't forget them.

  
\--♥--

They stay where they are until the sun starts to peek through the distant mountains, signalling to night’s children that their reign across the land is over. Ranboo, having fallen asleep where he sat, only curled into a tighter ball at the light. Upon him, rests a crimson cape, protecting him from the elements.

Eret does not know why they stayed, watching history rest their burden onto a god fraying at the edges, but they did. They want to, at least, which makes it right in their book.

They’ve done so much wrong -- made so many knots -- that they cling to the good without mercy. 

There are so many who would have left.

The silence -- oh, in the silence, they watched, rarely raising a finger when the knots tightened, when the lines were pulled taut. That was all they could do.

That is all he had to do, really.

_It was never meant to be._

_But…_

In the aether, something is _lost_. They can feel it just out of reach; they’re sure the memory god feels it just as much.

It wants to come home.

It’s been gone for so long.

_A gaping hole, waiting to be filled._

_But, first, the hole must be found._

“I hope you’re right.” 

The murmur is seemingly directed at nobody, but the wind shifts regardless, sending the words into the distance. 

Fate looks to the sky, watching nothing, but feeling something.

Perhaps, one day, they'd all feel it too.

“Oh aether, I hope you’re right.”

**Author's Note:**

>   * **Ranboo:** _God of Memory_ \- Part-Enderman. One of the youngest (and most inexperienced) gods, obviously struggling with his abilities.
>   * **Eret:** _God of Fate_ \- Created in the second generation of gods. They wear sunglasses to hide their eyes, as anyone who stares into them gets a glimpse of the path their life is moving in. 
>   * **Karl:** _God of Time_ \- Nobody knows when he was created -- which is kinda the point -- but Karl is far too friendly to pin it down entirely. If Eret is the strings, then Karl is the cotton that made the string.
>   * **Fundy:** _God of Choice, known more as The Crossroads God_ \- Son of Wilbur. One of the youngest (and most inexperienced) gods.
> 



End file.
